Reunion:Of Times and Troubles
by Orahiko
Summary: To be honest, and he had never been truly deliberate in lying to himself, they were killing each other. Yaoi, TezukaFuji, MomoRyoma, InuiKaido, and OishiKikumaru, Fin.
1. Default Chapter

**Hey, Orahiko, here with another fic. ! This one is yaoi, I don't write much else, but mine is very mild. TezukaFuji, Golden pair, RyomaMomo, and future InuiKaidou, and other pairings. **

**Don't own Tennis no Ohjisama. Promise. **

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It was silent, and he had never wished so fervently for noise.

How odd. He really hadn't ever liked noise, looking upon the chattering of others as something to be drowned out and vaguely heard, or consciously ignored, never participating, a unmoving and featureless as a worn rock statue, eventually accepted as merely part of the décor, a fixed landmark, perhaps. He had always gotten by with simply allowing the movement and color and disjointed, unconnected words that were so meaningless to him wash over him like the touch of a lightly woven, coolly transparent scarf filled with images and empty conversations.

He had always been silent, and that had been his downfall. Once. He had allowed someone in, someone who was silent, like him, who worked best in the bleak solitude of shadow that merely reflects the sun. Who he thought understood what it meant to be silent, to listen and ignore and discomfort, yet be simply there.

His mistake, and he had wondered if he would regret it. He should have known.

To be honest, and he had never been truly deliberate in lying to himself, they were killing each other.

The pieces had fallen in place yesterday, Tezuka mused, in silence and the murmur of ordinary words, the soft swish of fabric and the sound of rubber soled shoes, heels leaving the ground in an almost breathless squeak, the glint of amber light against the brass of the worn doorknob, the familiar, practiced smile and pale-skinned face turned upward towards him, and gentle words untouched by the harsh breathing predicted by the other's tired movements had told of his job, a simple words following a well worn path of practice. He had known then, should have known sooner, but it didn't matter. Their relationship had been doomed from the start.

Really, he reflected, as he lifted a cigarette to his lips, the soft paper yielding beneath his fingertips, avoiding the burnt orange edges, another unhealthy habit picked up over the time, he wasn't the only one caught unaware, but certainly the most surprised. He had seen the slight tensing of the slim figure, the forced and lightly discarded mask, his partner knowing he could no more keep up a deception now then when the most vital, innocent one was shattered, heard the words clearly, almost dazed, I see, we had better go sit down now, I can put dinner in the refrigerator, and had known irrevocably neither one of them would want it.

Why, when neither wanted to be in each other's presence? Not that that was totally true, he amended, wry, to himself, they wanted to be with each other, but simply put, it was stiff and stilted at best, both of them on different, equally well worn chairs, leaning slightly back, too far away to be intimate, to close for politeness alone, but neither silent nor unsure, simply searching for the most appropriate phrasing. It wasn't anything that could be comfortably carried on for even a short, precise conversation.

He paused to wonder bleakly if the other _had_ been truly surprised and shifted uneasily, legs crossing and thin brows forming a tense straight line, tossing away his cigarette into the shallow dish that lay beside the windowsill. Yes, he decided, even if his partner had known, this had come upon them too quickly, always seeming to promise in the distant future, and they had chosen to focus on the pleasure of their present time.

Their relationship had started barely after high school, more difficult, perhaps, but it had been worth it, and he remembered long practices and the tang of salt, and sweat and new cut grass, and the coldness of a metal can of soda in someone's hand, and distant storm clouds through clear panes of thin glass, his friend and rival standing before him, looking, not saying, _look, I know, you can't just ignore it, _and the hard, bright sheen of his open blue eyes, reflecting the storm and Tezuka and himself returning the look with a calmness he hadn't quite felt, and simply nodding to him and moving forward, slow heavy steps that made him feel like he was floating, acutely aware of the grainy white speckled flooring and soft pale grey shadows moving obscurely around him.

How Fuji had neither confronted nor demanded an answer, but simply watched him so sharply he could feel the heavy sharp edge of the other's blue-eyed gaze pressing against his shoulder bones and the drape of his white shirt, and how he, not the other, had waited till practice was over and approached the prodigy, and the slow, heavy, breathless walk to his home, and how he had said, not now, I don't mean not ever, but if you feel the same way I do let's wait, at least until we know what we'll want for a long, long, while, so please, and had fallen silent, his words disappearing somewhere in his dry throat yet running on like an endless line of music in his mind, please, I don't think I could settle for anything less, anything more, that's really all I want, but if you are going to walk away from me now, I can try to forget it, and order you the same number of laps tomorrow, but pretending it never happened, might just break what I have of a heart, I'm fairly sure of that, but I just want, and had stopped abruptly like everything else, the earth below his feet grinding to a ponderous halt, as he tried to coolly measure and appraise the slow nod of agreement and quick glance he had just received.

So they had waited, for a few years, almost interminable, an eternity to others of their age, longer to them, but worth it, every moment, because no matter how much they could hate and storm and care for the other, it was okay, because at the end of the day they had known, this was serious. This was too important to mess up. Too precious.

All for naught, he questioned himself, perversely delighted by the sorrow he felt, the pain that proved to himself what was went to in the surface was untrue. The answer was simple. It wasn't enough. They were agreeable, but a relationship could not be based upon mere baby steps, upon love yet no acknowledgement, giving but not receiving, simplicity and strength, like a fairy godmother's spell, worn thin, riddled with holes of ill-logic, a messy patchwork incapable of sheltering the merest child or hardiest woodman, yet every stitch done with love, the many stains of the ill woven fabric mingled with pricked blood and murmured blessings. How long? How long could they wait for each other to go their separate ways yet hope they would branch and cross again someday? He didn't want that, anymore than Fuji did, to wonder how the other was changing without him, experiencing life everyday, growing and feeling, until they met up again and could not see the one they loved in the familiar stranger facing them, loved but no longer beloved, known but not wanted?

They didn't have a relationship. They didn't even have a friendship, merely a rivalry and companionship worn thin and strong, mended by bruises and rackets and long summer afternoons and intricate puzzles spelled out in the graceful patterns feet whirled in. there was nothing to tie them together, nothing to join them once the ties of lover were broken.

Absolutely nothing.

Tezuka wondered what he wanted, and didn't know. He turned his head to greet his lover, smiling faintly with a hint of worry and a determination he hadn't seen in a while. Fuji held out his hand in a slight gesture, and he caught sight of the dim gleam of tarnished copper.

The other man sat down next to him, crossing jean-covered legs as he plucked a cushion deftly from their couch and fiddled idly with it, a barrier. He felt tired, too tired to challenge even the thin, threadbare object that represented the distance between him and Fuji, and contented himself with watching the other's hands, graceful and pale, the fingernails worn down, used to biting into the metal wrapped handles of tennis rackets, skin paper white, the nails clear and thin, reminding him of bamboo husks.

I'm _sorry, _the other man whispers, as honest as he can be. He knows, so doesn't acknowledge it. The other tries to speak, tries to comfort, to calm, the stupidest words he has ever heard, so he ignores it, feels the monochrome blankness of the room swirling around him distantly, a part of him listening, agreeing, the other part watching separately from a distance. He knows now what it means to break.

He moves quickly, trapping the other below him, so close he can see the flutter of eyelashes and the grey fuzz of the couch and thin threads, clear skin, and lazily blocks a shift of movement below him, the rough fabric of denim making a soft sound against the other body. He doesn't fight his lover, merely holds him, absorbing the feeling of simple presence, and stares absently out the window, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the room, marked by soft splashes of hazy purple, soft grays, and sweetly yellow white light. His eyes are blank, like glass. Let's get an apartment, he whispers in his love's ear. _Please._

They hold each other, distantly, like unknown family, and the other understands. He hopes it will make everything better. He knows it's a foolish wish, but it's worth a try, he decides, exhaling over Tezuka's shoulder, barely shuddering at the thought of what will happen afterwards, if it doesn't work, if nothing works.

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They find an apartment a month later. It's somewhat too big, the brick walls thick, iron barred and the structure somewhat circular, curling into itself. Tezuka likes it, likes the feel of cold tiles and thick carpet, likes the walls with peeling paint, a remnant of a past tenant, pale blue and cream and sunflower yellow, oddly striped in parsley green in incongruous corners, and almost dreary, the windows dusty and shuttered with dark scarred wood. It's perfect, and they buy it, buy the whole floor. He decides they need some new roommates.

There's a number in his pocket, sitting there, a worn, twisted, yellowing bit of waxy paper with a simple scribble of blue coppery ink on it, like a vein, that says, call me, with a number below it. He stops, hesitating, cupping the thick round of glazed pottery in his hand as if it will reassure him, and drinks his coffee quickly. It's black, heavy, from the bottom of the pot, and almost cold, the taste sinking into his tongue. He calls the number.

Oishi hadn't been Eiji's best friend. They had known each other, talked, laughed, eaten together, played together, but not friends. Never friends. He hadn't been sure what Oishi had been to him, but he had had Fuji, and Oishi had had Tezuka, and he thought that was enough for the both of them. It had been, then, it really was. But then he had done some stupid and impulsive things that he hadn't thought about, but really couldn't help, noticing odd things at weird times, like the shape of Oishi's bones and the broad grin on his face when he was happy, or suddenly remembering the feel of him, solid and reassuring behind Eiji, ready to level anybody who wanted to beat them.

And it was _weird, _because he didn't know what was going on, which wasn't horrible or anything, but he had weird urgings these days, to hug Oishi, and to eat and talk with him more and more often, and these days he didn't like it when Tezuka buchou and Oishi took the bus home together, even though it was perfectly normal, really. Silly Eiji. So he ignored it, and went on with his life, but _somehow_ found himself in the _same_ university as Oishi, and when the girl at the registration desk had asked him if he was once part of the Golden Pair, and he had proudly and enthusiastically informed her he still was, and told long cheerful stories, and somehow they became roommates, and he hadn't understood why when Oishi saw him unsurprised, unpacked _terribly_ responsibly and slowly, and when they played a quick game of tennis he had felt more alive than he had since he graduated, or why he had never been so quick and light on his feet, like he could touch the bright, glowing sky and fiery sun, but he never wanted his feet to leave the court, and Oishi had _still_ won, and why he went to bed remembering the feeling of his friend's warm arm around his shoulders and somehow, in some odd, terribly fierce part of him, he never, ever, ever wanted to win against Oishi.

And Oishi had _known_, pretty much all this time, and hadn't said anything, but watched, and worried, and that hurt. Because what if Eiji had been waiting for him to say something, and he had just ignored it, or been to late, and that would have been bad, awful, and so terrible Eiji didn't want to contemplate it anymore then he had to. But that was the way he was, and Eiji loved him anyway, so it wasn't too bad, he guessed. They had their happy ending, and if some days Oishi worried too much and came home with that thin line on his forehead and tired eyes, unhappy and somehow lonely, and if Eiji couldn't touch the sky some days anymore, barred by cold lights and hard ceilings, then it was okay, because it would be. Okay. Eventually, and soon, and much better once they could hold each other.

But they needed a place to stay, because Oishi's company, he worked as a manager, worrying about people, had just transferred him, so it seemed to be a godsend when Tezuka called.

Ryoma was a famous tennis player, the young and aspiring. He still drank Ponta, though. But he was famous and great and untouchable, and his cat, somehow, was still alive. That was featured prominently in a big-shot magazine, as a wonder of modern times, and tabloids whispered that was because he had somehow ingested much of Ryoma's drugs that he was secretly taking off on the side, or his steroids, whichever you prefer, and a couple of scientists had even come up to him and asked if they could do tests on Karupin, which, of course, he said no to. So he was happy, kind of, even if every Saturday he came home and lost at tennis, which was okay, because the last game had lasted seven minutes, thirty point six seconds and an extra leap more then the last, so on the whole, his life wasn't bad. But he didn't like the fact that his house was somehow too big, even though it was crowded with litter, despite his housekeeper's best efforts, and even when he came home tired, late and exhausted from long practices, longer matches, and still longer press conferences, and when he should have been to tired to even notice the cold, neatly folded bed, despite his best efforts to keep it rumpled, or the _silence_, and how when he got out of he shower the tiles were still cold and wet, and the bed was neat and perfect. And non-wrinkled.

Momo-sempai became a reporter, a stupid one, who, when he came to Ryoma's press conferences, spent most of time running around and grinning, this stupid, idiotic, grin at poor long suffering silently tortured Ryoma, who just couldn't stop that involuntary muscle spasm in his jaw that translated itself outside into what quite possibly have _appeared_ to be a hint of a grin but, really, honestly, wasn't. But Momo had always been optimistic and hopelessly simple, he never took the hint and kept coming now and then. Not like Ryoma missed him when he didn't come.

So when he showed up at this one, ordinary night, and Ryoma was too tired to fight and simply yawned, which he took as invitation to come in, and waved an envelope containing a letter from Fuji and a promise for a year's worth of training in exchange for rent, and smiled crookedly and stupidly at him, Ryoma supposed through a mix of sleep haze and annoyance he must have said something indicating agreement. Stupid Momo-sempai and his stupid smile.

So he, _they_ came, and stood in front of the apartment, and it was tall and fat against the autumn storm, a crumbling rich red, and one of the windows was still dirty, pale paper thin leaves clinging to the shutters. They were still wearing sneakers. Tezuka smiled. Fuji opened the door and welcomed them in.

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**Okay, I'm fairly new, so please inform me of any spelling, grammatical, or other flaws. If anyone is willing to be, or knows someone who would beta for me that would be awesome beyond words. Part two should be up soon, and some, not much, of the confusing stuff that you can't understand will be explained. I'll probably forget a bit, so if you want a question to be answered, don't expect the answer to be in the next installment. I appreciate any comments on flow, clarity, metaphors, spelling (for which I would be awesomely grateful for), plot, characterization, and so on. **

**If you can't think of anything, which if what often happens to me, then please say hi. Like I said, I'm new. Really, just got off the boat, fresh from the countryside and still believes that white shoes are acceptable in any form except sneakers for men, and impractical heels for women. **

**Damn, I can't not write wordy. I think this got less descriptive near the end. How'd that happen? **

_ .: Do not ask so you will not deny :.. _


	2. What Happened Before and a Little After

**Thanks to all my reviewers; who are awesome and dispersed much needed advice, criticism, and encouragement! This is yaoi, TezukaFuji OishiEiji RyomaMomo, and later InuiKaidoh, and yes, I do firmly believe in happy endings and especially in the pairings. Yoshiko-chan is truly amazing, and she kindly beta-d this for me, so hopefully it will be good. Thank you!**

**Don't own. Really. **

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There are no happy endings. There have never been, merely people seeking illusionary worlds, making the story as they choose it to be, the way they wish their own story ended. Those people are afraid, but they are not cowards. They are real, ordinary people that dream the dreams they choose, even if they will never be truly happy.

They don't understand happiness. They don't understand love, but the only love they have ever experienced. If you were offered a chance at something you can hardly believe exists, if you are unable to recognize it when it is there, why would you recognize it once the chance is gone? Why would you even want to, if it might merely make you unhappy? In order to dream, you must recognize the dream when it is proffered, and cling tightly to it, never looking back after you have evaluated your choices, chosen your path. If you take your eyes off it for even a second, it may disappear, and then you will regret what could have been, because you _know_. You have tasted what was unreachable, and you will remember it forever.

Tezuka.

Tezuka wanted things. He wanted to play tennis. He wanted to get a good night's sleep, and to eat healthy food. He wanted to read the book he heard about through the crackling static of the radio, and to live a through methodical life. He always knew what he wanted. He wanted to be with Fuji. He wanted to wake up in the grey mornings with him and discuss news with him and eat spicy food with him and see him smile with his blue eyes open and have his clothes smell like him because they were washed together and Fuji borrowed them, and touch him and taste him, simply to make sure he was truly there.

He wanted to buy a house in Tokyo with him, someplace surrounded by bustling absent people but untouched by noise, a structure with bones of silvered blue grey steel and beautiful windows, small but high on the ground, almost suspended by other buildings in mid-air. He wanted them to be able to leave each other for days; weeks even, and come home to have the other greet them with the gentleness of love and security. He wanted to get a marmalade furred cat, one who would shed furiously and make him complain and would ooze of their now ragged couch to rub against Fuji's feet, and glow golden in the rich sunlight. He wanted to live with him forever, and he wanted Fuji to understand some of what he hoped would eventually happen to them, to agree and mock and argue and help him choose the right words that burst forth and lay coiled in the frustration in his arms and along the line of his body. Because words were important, especially the right ones.

That's what he wanted, that was his doubt and reassurance. That's why he was _here._

Ryoma

You like tennis. It's awesome and incredible and everything beginners hope it would be and pro's remember in their past glories. There's the wind beneath your feet and the adrenaline pumping in your body, and the familiar burn of muscles and you remember why you love this, choose to play it cause you loved it, and you feel something pulling at the corners of your mouth, and you think you could jump so high, so much higher than anybody else below you and reach out and pluck the moon from the sky. But you have, and it's there in your hand and strung in the metal wires of your racket, and you toss it deftly and make it arch over the shadow that's frantically chasing around the court, but you want to laugh at the slow little flapping flesh colored paper doll that tries so hard to keep up, and it's up so far you almost can't see it but then it's stuck along a band that circles the universe and lands directly on top of the painted white line.

You think you might love this more than anything, because there's the familiar soft weight in your palm and going thwack thwack against the soft flooring and rubber beneath your sneakers and you know you won't ever be this way outside the barbwire fence and painted walls, you won't ever be as strong as superman or as quick as a swallow, or see the whole world like it's so much slower than you or be so fiercely aware of your surroundings, cause the guy in the corner just sighed and you can count the freckles on his nose in half that time, but someone's yelling and the world snaps back into place, and the sunlight's so bright it almost blinds you but you never noticed it before.

You didn't ever notice the crowd yelling before, or didn't care cause they're both the same thing, but suddenly you're acutely aware of sweat running down in a rivulet behind your collar and a pair of purple eyes watching you from the crowd, and he slides out of it like it's the most natural thing in the world and steps beside you, still swinging in rhythm. You think you might still feel that way when he grins at you and his smile's so cocky that your heart skips a beat. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and offers to buy you burgers and juice, and you know he'll always, always tease you about your height and keep you on your toes and in shape. He'll probably never leave you unless you want him to and you won't ever want that.

You mutter something at him and pull your cap over your face, because you feel suddenly very hot and you don't want him to notice.

You're blushing.

You want to shrink into your clothes, but you can't let him notice.

He notices. But he's still grinning at you with something that looks like hope.

You've always felt that way when you saw him, but it's different somehow and you're just beginning to figure that out.

Oishi

He watches, and he worries. Anyone passing by will tell that he's that kind of guy, what he's almost famous for but not completely. Its funny how they don't ask why he's worried, just take it as a given. So he worries. He's good at that.

He worries when Kawamura scrapes his elbow; he worries about the math assignment the teacher's talking about that he doesn't really understand. Tennis used to be a solace, but now it's not as comforting as it used to be and he wonders why. He moves to flank his friend but the steps of the dance have been changed and nobody informed him. He misses his best friend, but he's too busy watching Tezuka, being with him to feel truly lonesome.

He's definitely worried, though. He sees the quick glances, the brief conversations, the way they hold themselves in each other's presence and wonder which one is more sunk in love and denial, Fuji or Tezuka and who will be the first to understand what's going on. He wonders if Tezuka will stop denying himself what he wants, what he needs, or when Fuji will finally see as he moves to checkmate Tezuka, if he'll notice the trap he so unknowingly crafted for himself under his feet.

He realizes the rest of the team is under the same spell as those two, and the tennis court is shaded with unrecognized feelings and hazy with anticipation. He wants something now that his best friend is gone and it might be red and bright blue colored, slender and quick, but he really isn't sure. He doesn't know what to say because he hasn't even guessed what he's feeling and isn't sure about what he thought he was sure about and hopes that someday it will be clear. Someday it will be time but someday is coming too fast and he can't see it. His friends have shone so they're disappearing on the distant horizon in puffs of twining smoke, and the bright days rush by. He looks for a handhold to steady himself with, one his callused fingertips will fit into but can't find it. He doesn't want to believe that it's over so he doesn't and pretends that nothing's wrong. He knows he's right. He's sure, somehow. So when his tennis partner comes into his new room at the prestigious university he so carefully picked and bounces on his new coverlet excitedly he tries hard to feel surprised and resigned but there isn't anything feigned in his smile.

But he's still worried, and he doesn't know exactly what to say quite yet. Maybe it's for the best if he doesn't say anything at all. He's young and it seems like he has forever ahead of him even though he know that isn't true, so he thinks he can afford to solve this in a little while, but that'll be hard because he doesn't really understand what's going on and he hopes the train won't leave without him in a flurry of bright steam and painted metal and crowding people, but he'd run after this train. Always.

It's hazy October, five years later, and he's still worried. There are birds shattering the crisp air and feathers clouding his eyes and his companion's, and he thinks of his old friends, knows he'll see them, in an hour or a million years, so it's a reunion of sorts and he thinks he should have baked something but he doesn't have an oven.

His best friend watches him with clear eyes and a shadowed face but the words that he never had, never was brave enough to speak shrivel up in his throat and float downward silently. He tears them to pieces but they don't disturb the dark water that forms his soul as they land in spirals on the surface. He still worries, but he's watching now and that's another thing he's good at. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to _know_, but instead he smiles and smoothes his face into a porcelain mask, eyes empty. It's so much easier to hide behind a smile, he thinks, and nobody notices because they all expect that to be there and don't look for anything else. When he's alone he cocoons himself in blankets, falling on the floor, and laughs till he can't breathe. Uncertainty would hurt like hell but knowing something's there and untouchable is worse.

These days he wants to run. He feels the walls closing in, and he's filled with an uncontrollable spurt of wild energy, and he smiles at the sound of his shoes leaving the thick edge of marble that marks the end of the sidewalk, and it's Saturday so he can go where ever he wants because he's never cut class in his life and probably never will and that's sad, really, but he feels invincible and anxious and thirsty. He heads down to the park and it's not too bad, really, with the dead autumn leaves swirling around his feet and catching in his socks, and he feels like something huge is going to happen, something earthshattering. There are children waling by him, intent upon fun they're too young to appreciate and to jaded to care about, and he smiles at a cute little girl with red hair and wide dark eyes.

_There are birds in the fountain. Oishi is too breathless to care._

But he's been followed and now _he'_s there, the cause of his heartache, and watching him, uncharacteristically silent. He's wearing white and blue and a red scarf, and not a smile, and when he speaks it's almost strangled. I get it now, he says softly, and clears his throat, tries again. I'm sorry, I'm here now, you've been waiting for a while, haven't you? I guess I'm pretty clueless, he says, and keeps apologizing, serious and exhilarated. I like you, he whispers and Oishi's heart stops beating for a few minutes. He turns away slightly, not wanting to make this into a confrontation, keeping the image like a photograph in his memory, the spring green of the grass and the thin, spidery brown fibers of the leaf caught on Eiji's coat, the bright sparks that seem to surround the pale gleaming water, and the soft white flurry of feathers from the birds. I'm sorry, he says at last. The cold air dries out his lungs. He bends and brushes his lips against his friend's.

He waited perhaps too long, but it doesn't matter right now.

Tezuka.

He misses him. Fuji is right there and near and touchable, and all it would take if the most absent of gestures to reach him but it still isn't right somehow, and he misses him. Very much. He didn't think he would, he didn't know when he'd realized this but the house is empty, dark and tall when they're in it and purple grey shadows cling to the windowsills, and the conversations are the same as always, calm and through but somehow lack personality. As if they had given up long ago the right to claim individuality and emotion and even a place where they were welcome, but remain, drifting like soulless wanderers. He doesn't know quite what to think or even what to say, so he dismisses it, and sets out for a walk, closing the door gently behind him. His keys are on the low antique table in the center of the small cream painted hall, it's empty but for a small skylight set with a single pane of clear slanted glass. The sky outside appears stormy, colored pale blue mixed with deep swirls of gray and from the window the feathery green edges of a maple tree tickle the sky. The hall is simple and bare.

Tezuka reaches for his keys, remembering the picture that once stood there. It had been one of Fuji's first pictures that he had taken when they were a couple, one that he had brought home, a simple, deliberately old fashioned black and white that depicted them standing side by side, Tezuka looking slightly off to the side where Fuji was smiling, against a background of soft pines. He had smiled at him, glowing and indifferent, his voice teasing yet polite, saying, Tezuka, this might go well in the entrance, isn't it nice, but had stopped, almost waiting for approval like a child holding an awkward handful of flowers for her mother's inspection her mother. He had almost been caught off balance by this, and amended the relapse by picking the glass frame up and turning it around in his hands, somberly watching his reflection and the glints of light that washed off the silvered glass frame. Yes, he had said at last, but it's too fragile, and did not add the words that continued in his head, because that was his way and a blind man could see he found the glass and especially the picture beautiful.

Fuji had merely smiled in the old way he was so accustomed to doing, and placed the picture on the dark-grained table, but had set it at an oblique angle, not directly facing the door but angled toward the kitchen, and he had wondered why but not commented because it was, after all, Fuji's gift, and Fuji had remarked how prettily it reflected the amber light of the kitchen lamp, and the sage green paint of the door, and he had thought that the end of the matter. He thought Fuji understood how he felt, and he did, but he had felt guilty on realizing later that Fuji had been honest, so honest he hadn't recognized it, merely tried to defend himself against something that wasn't there, but he had bought him a leather bound album, with simple lines, as a silent apology.

A few months later, the frame broke, and the broken glass had speared the picture, and Fuji hadn't commented, but merely swept the pieces up and thrown the ruined picture away. Saa, Tezuka, that's too bad I guess, he had commented mildly, but the entrance had remained bare of decoration and had seemed lonelier.

Tezuka stood on the doorstep and felt the rain scented air touch his skin, and noticed the silvery drops of water clinging to the outside of the dark glassed windows fall on to the broad leaves of the magnolia bushes slightly below the house. The neighbor had planted them, but had grown bored when magnolia blossoms were no longer in fashion and had willingly given them over to Fuji, who was fond of plants. The smell of wet earth was strong as water ran down the street and pavement, and trickled into the swelling gutters that threatened to overflow. He hesitated, and went back inside, wiping his feet carefully.

**To the reviewers of Reunion; **

**Akari-hayashi: Thank you! I guess the front part is kinda confusing, sorry about that. I'm glad you like my style of writing. Thank you so much for being my first reviewer!**

**Fallen Fantasist; I'm incredibly grateful to you for noticing that, though I do like signed reviews, I also like unsigned, and I'm a newbie, so I didn't really notice that those reviews were being blocked. I'm also really happy for your feedback because it shows me someone got the message I was trying to project, instead of unrealistic, uncomplicated feelings, which wouldn't happen to anyone, especially not people as complex as those two. Please keep reviewing.**

**Ilanala; I'm really sorry it came across to you that I was deliberately concealing Tezuka's significant other. In the summary I thought that was really clear, and it was listed on the page as well. ; Please don't keep that from you reading, however. **

**Tezuka eiri; Thank you for your honest comments. The truth is, I did write what came into my mind, which is to me an essential part of writing. It does have a plot and a direction, and I don't want to reveal too much, but if this was simply a long break up fic I wouldn't even bother writing this fic. I'm extremely sorry if you are depressed, but the angst is an essential part of the plot. In order to love, people don't necessarily have to be soul mates because the process is extremely complicated and if that were true there would be a whole lot less couples out there. They are, in my mind nonetheless, soul mates. Without a doubt. Thank you for promising to read the next chapter, it really cheered me up. You reviewed truthfully, and for that, I'm extremely grateful. Please continue.**

**I have no comments for Yoshiko-chan, who helped me so much, because she rocks beyond words. **

_.: I wonder………:._


	3. what to dream

**Yay, another chapter! Thanks to my reviewers, I'm so grateful! Yaoi, OishiEiji, TezukaFuji, InuiKaido, and MomoRyoma. And thanks to my beta, yoshiko-chan, who is an enormous help. **

**I don't own. **

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Inui

It was simple. A simple calculation, a simple answer, and a simple conclusion. He hadn't meant for it to be complicated, hadn't been able to predict the staggering amount of trouble and complications humans were able to factor into equations or the dizzying feeling of the unpredictable, the seduction of something unknown.

When Inui was ten, he knew he wanted to be a scientist. He didn't have the ordinary ambitions of a ten year-old, wanting to win the science fair and be a superhero, he wanted to be a scientist and go to Tokyo University, get his degrees, and then pro-offer his resume at the unassuming yet promising company he had his eye on, one that offered success and stability, yet was young enough for him to carve a firm hold in it. He decided to play tennis as a recreational sport, one to simulate his mind, expose him to other people and help hone the rudimentary people skills that would be necessary for his job, for existing in such a socially conscious world. He hadn't meant for it to consume him, hadn't meant to become this attached to the other people that also played. Hadn't known that once the lure of the empty page, the space between the delicate, precise lines of the paper had been filled until he couldn't look away did not compare with the shock of being with others, feeling sweat and skin and adrenaline bubbling up under his skin, filling his veins with energy like a shocking gasp of water and feeling hair prickling his skin with the stubbly ends, _his_ hair, or the satisfaction of hearing the sound of the ball connect solidly with the deceivingly delicate appearance of the racket, or even the sudden pleasure of laughing with others.

He wanted a life with someone who would leave him alone, someone that he could understand and settle comfortably into routine with. He wanted someone who would provide stability and balance, and simplicity, a housekeeper, perhaps, or he would live alone, but he didn't think he could do that. He wonders why he fell in love with Kaoru Kaido.

He thought it was just a fling, a high school relationship that wouldn't last, but somehow it did. Somehow he found himself waiting to meet the other tennis player on his free time, even thinking about the next meeting, but it didn't mean anything deep or serious. It couldn't. After all, Kaoru was the eldest son of a traditional family, and he had his career. And it happened the way he thought it would, his lover's father arranging a marriage for him with a close friend of the family's daughter. The other hadn't understood why Inui choose not to discuss it, wanted to pretend it didn't exist. He wasn't really sure himself, and his eyes were watering from staring too closely at his data. And Kaido argued and Inui didn't, so he moved out. He moved in with Inui a day later.

It wasn't easy, hearing the angry, pain filled, unhappy, and weeping messages left on their answering machine. It wasn't even remotely pleasant for days, and they played tennis for hours, burning off the anger and sorrow through sweat and numbing it with exhaustion. It hurt to go against the traditional respect, the guilty feelings, and the pain of losing beloved parents, not in death, which may be muted over time, but in life, which is far, far, worse. It took them a month to even start touching each other again, light, casual almost impersonal touches that still brought with them a spark of all to familiar guilt, but reminded them of something else. The reason why they chose the hurt over comfort.

And he was a scientist, and Kaoru worked in a company, and they didn't do anything particularly extraordinary because it wasn't terribly important to do so, and in the meanwhile, they were okay. He was with someone he couldn't predict, couldn't manipulate, and didn't even want to, and he had never been happier.

Momo

He looks like he's flying out there. He looks, … not happy, but _sure_ of himself, confident of his abilities, his body acrobatic and eyes measuring his opponent. There's sweaty hair in his eyes, and you can almost taste the sweat and salt in the corners of his mouth because you've been in that position so many times before. Not like this, though. You weren't cut out for this, never have been, but standing on the sidelines, blending in with bunches of restless, anticipating people is comfortable. The line between you and other faceless strangers is disappearing, and somewhere in between them and the crackling tension that causes the hairs on the back of your neck to stand up, you lose yourself. You blur. And the others blur with you, watching him.

They can't help it, not really. It's like the advanced, grown up version of fan girls, the squealing and soft smiles and tentative, upfront gifts, but these are older people, adults with jobs that come to watch him and someone else under the wide blue sky and in the small rectangle of green rubber that makes up this world. They can't help it, so you don't blame them. How could you? You're just the same, even though you have better, more sensible excuses that run on and on, like how you train him, and have to notice his weaknesses, and regiment his training, and how it's simply good to watch an old friend play. Yeah… sure. You can't help it any more than they can, the magnetic force of talent and almost unobtrusive charisma, and action. Lot's of action, like how he moves and the way his arm stretches back to whip the ball far, far too fast for the other player to reach, just on the line…

He's really giving the other guy a beating, you think, slugging back your soda. It's not Ponta. You wish it were.

If it was, you would've saved it, even though you're thirsty, you'd give it to him, after the game. You're stupid like that. You wish you didn't love him, wish you hadn't stayed by his side, but the thought of _not_ being there, not watching him and making him eat even when he says he isn't hungry, taking him home when he falls asleep in the exercise room and washing his face with a facecloth in that cold marble shell of a palace he calls his home, but you were just too stupid to offer him the opportunity to be flat mates so it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter at all…It hurts. It hurts so much you can't _breathe, _and you can only watch. You love him. He doesn't know. And it hurts.

He's young. He's always been young, and hell, when he was _sixteen,_ he didn't even know what a girlfriend was. He found out though, it would be hard not to with all his adoring fans propositioning him, and Coach's niece confessing her love to him, but maybe you were fine with it the way it was before. Things have to change, but you're definitely here for good.

He'll always be good-looking, too sharp chinned and skinny for pretty, too fine boned to be handsome, but his hair is the color of ink and still clinging to the nape of his neck and covering what might be a wide forehead on a well shaped head, and his eyes are slanted and pale yellow. He's very thin, his chin a sharp point and his expression slightly pouting and bored, and you told him once he had the expression of both Tezuka and Atobe, and he tried to brain you with a pillow, and you almost choked from laughter. You miss that, but it hasn't gone away.

He won the game, and his eyes are clearing, and that's your cue to approach, away from clingy fans and desperate reporters in red Jeeps, because that time… it belongs to you. And you won't give that up. And maybe, someday he might look at you and see you properly, from a different perspective, still his best friend, but possibly something more. And you'll wait. You're both young, maybe, and somebody once said to you, You've got all the time in the world. They have no idea how right they are.

There's a tree outside, and he leans against it, waiting for you under the pretense of resting, but you aren't fooled, but it seems a shame to waste the sunlight, and he's wearing white, even in the dappled shade, and there's a rain of golden leaves mixing with the translucent green ones, and the rough bark is dark and somehow rich looking. You like to think that the sound of the steps you take together go forward, farther than you two have ever gone, and precede the grey-paved road in purple twilight. It's easy to imagine the untraceable sounds fall; small and smoky clear, in the soft dirt at the side of the road, among small shoots and dead leaves. You slow your steps while approaching him, and he glances up at you along the edge of the brim of his cap. You almost stop, astonished, but this is too familiar to break the rhythm of both your steps, and stopping might wake you up. You don't wake up, though.

He's blushing, truly blushing, and you take a second, more desperate and hopeful glance, and he's _still_ blushing. You grin at him, and send a thank-you prayer to a deity somewhere who really, really, likes you.

Oishi

He was always too far away to reach. Too distant, too cold, too golden, his skin like marble, a cold chill wrapped around that white face. I followed him from a distance, too wise to come as close as the fools who walked in his shadow, eagerly grasping at his arms and pulling on his clothing. If he had let go he would have been pulled under, broken into a thousand little pieces and greedily sucked up through their desire, but I wasn't that foolish. I knew he would submit to their eager questions but stay, somehow out of their reach, in their arms and yet not within breathing distance, so I walked along behind him, waiting.

They followed his shadow but found themselves lost, and didn't understand that was because he didn't have one, and bumped blindly in the dark into each other, chins, shoulders, and long arms twining. They didn't understand because I was his shadow, a position delegated to me before I knew him, and he knew me.

I cared for him as much as he would let me, more, I think. We didn't fit but we knew that, and waited. There was someone as silver as a frosted mirror in an empty room in his dreams, and one as warm and petulant as a fire-furred cat in mine, and we didn't even know it. We guessed, though, that's why we got along so well. We were good friends.

I wanted to be his best friend, so I was, because he didn't have many friends he could trust. I'm glad of that now, because he's famous and everything's still the same as ever. They never seemed to realize that nothing has changed, that at the end of the day they'll still be in the dark, looking for his shadow. He doesn't really have one anymore, and I don't mind. The position was one that I had reserved for myself, a bit selfishly.

I was vacuuming the kitchen when the annoying phone vibrated, and moved to answer it, leaving the coils of cord lying behind me in a crumpled, abandoned heap on the cool tiled flooring. The phone rang, and I wedged it behind my ear, attempting to wrestle the vacuum cleaner upright, and answered. Hello, buchou. You've been gone for a while.

I told Eiji the offer over dinner, and he agreed. My company had just promoted me, after all, to that very sector in which he lived. He agreed thoughtfully, but I misjudged him. He touched my hand after dinner, and I noticed his eyes were clear and dark. I'm worried, he said.

I didn't realize until we got there how bad things were. Tezuka's face was as taut and grey as the clouds that surround the steel-loving city, and there were shadows in Fuji's blue eyes and face that he hid through his smile, but his demeanor was as composed as ever, his manner as welcoming. If it weren't for his glance I might never have guessed at the problem, his posture was stiff, his expression almost forbidding. I'm not his best friend for nothing, though.

I can't help him with his problems; I can't save him from his hell. I'm no god or prophet, able to save or condemn, and for all the years our friendship has lain fallow I no longer can condone his actions, but I'll stay. Fuji understands, and I think he's making a mistake as well, in allowing the wound to fester before cauterizing it, but I understand. It's the same thing I'd do, almost the same as I did, but the unhappiness on his face is plain to see. I wish them the best of luck but they don't need it, because it wouldn't do them any good.

I saw them one school morning, the sky was blue and creamy-yellow with clouds the color of parchment, and the leaves were dark green and thick. They were talking on a bench outside the lockers, the grass wet and short around them with rainbow sheen, and I could see someone waiting on the beige cement roof of the nearest school building. He had his head bent slightly, and the furious wind plucked at his hair, dark in the early light. I couldn't see anything past the shadow he seemed to cast on the sky and the liquid curve of Fuji's posture, but they were serious, intent, and almost wistful. They loved each other, that much was plain, but I feared for the ending of such a relationship, and for their selves.

They were both strong, and Tezuka did not wish to be manipulated, nor Fuji made to obey, so I couldn't help comparing them to oil and water. I was afraid, worried for my best friend, and my partner's best friend, worried for the damage they might do to each other, for the violent end of such violent delights, for the fact that they simply weren't capable of keeping an ordinary relationship simple. I would have told him as much, but I thought he already knew that, and would take care of Fuji, and Fuji of him. I knew at least Fuji understood, but they equally valued what was at stake here, even if they weren't sure the other did.

The apartment was forlornly beautiful, but my mind was on other things, and I couldn't help but worry about the two of them. I was his best friend, I would always be his best friend, and I would help him as much as I could, even if it hurt me. Even if this fell apart and hurt all of us, the same way broken glass can injure ten people from a chanced bit of sharp-edged gravel, the effect might be the same.

They needed us. They needed smiles from uncomprehending people; help with an unwieldy package, and simple offerings of snacks. They needed outside cynicism from Ryoma and understanding comfort from me, and cheerfulness from Eiji, even if they thought they were fine without these things. You can't love just one person without conditions; you can't bury yourself and exchange conversations with the same companion over and over again, it might just drive you insane. We're their friends, there when they needed us and mostly when they didn't, and we understand that there are some words that can't be spoken.

I think what he didn't understand is that there are words that have to be spoken, no matter how much you refuse to speak and surround yourself with ones who understand you when you don't. I hope he understands soon, I hope he figures it out before the time comes and there's a farewell, but I've learned not to predict things. I am his best friend, and I worry about him, even if that place isn't totally mine anymore.

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**Thanks to all my fabulous reviewers, who really are truly fabulous. I love praise, comments, greetings, and flames. If you don't know what to say, which happens to me a lot, just say hi, please. **

**Fallen Fantasist; thank you, I missed those errors. I'm so grateful! And yes, it's vague, but that's the way I write, and I've been trying to make it clearer lately. I really appreciate your comments. **

**Alaive; yes, I hear there's a lot of that going around now, . I'll do my best.**

**Ki-ku-maru- BEAM; no, I haven't. And yes, though the story isn't being told that way, it kind of is, sorry for not making much sense, but my writing's never been compared to a movie before! I'm glad you think she rocks. Cause she does.**

**Alena Flame Dragonstar; yes, that's what I'm kinda going for. I hope this chapter meets your expectations, though. **


	4. the end of the world

**Last chapter, so please read. Thank you! **

**Yaoi, TezukaFuji, OishiEiji, InuiKaido, and MomoRyoma. Don't own. Thanks to yoshiko-chan, who beta-d and was a humongous help. Thanks!**

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Fuji

He wasn't sure where they stood, he wasn't even sure if he was happy. He wouldn't leave, but it felt like he couldn't stay, not with the relationship they had now.

Tezuka had been given an office. He was successful enough, and Fuji was going to visit his workplace. He wasn't _invited_. He was there to return something, and he wasn't even a deliveryman, he was lower, because he wasn't paid. Tezuka had called him and absently ordered him to bring his briefcase; it was an order, even phrased as a request.

He took a taxi driven by a gruff voiced man, battered and gaudily painted, the outside faintly crusted with the grey film that surrounded everything in the city. His seat was plush, soft velvet that was barely worn and he sat silently, despite the best efforts of the cabbie to engage him in conversation, stroking the seat tiredly with thin hands and watched the brilliantly colored whirl of people and their drab, careless surroundings, and smiled.

The ride stopped too soon, and he saw the building so proudly exclaimed over, a model of efficiency and intimidation, looming over him and throwing everything below it into dark shadow. Fuji thought it looked cold and ridiculous, an imposing silhouette of grey against the warmer red flushed brick buildings beside it, then frowned, his forehead barely creasing, at the silver wash of the deep blue that reminded him of the underneath a heavy harbor, the shadow of a shark barely visible in the depths, then dismissed the notion, tightening the hold on Tezuka's briefcase that he was there to return. He hurried forward, dismissing clay and flesh toned walls under yellow lighting and oddly spaced, thickly glassed covered paintings that appeared to be an afterthought, if a subtle, genteel one. He didn't like it but it wasn't his place to question it, he thought absently.

The farther he rode upwards on the dark, compressing elevator with dim plastic buttons, and wished in vain for the familiarity of the stairs, if only to clear his head, the more opulent and yet curiously alike the offices became, and he didn't really like that either. Maybe he was being picky, he speculated, as his shoes nudged pebbled carpeting and small crumbs from forgotten, hastily eaten sandwiches in slippery waxed paper, and his head hurt. It didn't matter how badly he felt. He finally reached the last floor.

It was tasteful, rich, and business-like, the rich gleam of polished wood contrasting with the neatly painted walls and leather armchairs, the cushions ringed by studs of brass, and yet it was cold, emerald paint and stiff curtains, the room filled with silver nameplates and artificial light. Austere. The light was golden and almost translucent, yet as clear as glass. He felt odd, out of place among his friends who were also viewing the workplace, as if he was the only one that did not belong. He hated it, he decided as Tezuka came out to greet them, taking the briefcase out of his hands. He smiled gently and turned to leave.

Tezuka didn't understand, he thought despairingly. He's pushing me away, and I'm not sure if he knows it. He will understand, he might realize it someday, when it's far too late for us. I knew that. And I won't accept it on any other terms than this. I just didn't think it would hurt so much, having to carve a place in his life for myself every day, and he didn't even notice. But I didn't tell him, and I won't. I can't.

He turned to leave, and to leave their lives with that action.

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The tension in the room that had been belied by Fuji's smile reappeared, a simple exchange between himself and his lover, apparent only to the discerning eye. His friends knew them too well, worried too much, laughed and toiled with them, had helped them and done their best in vain. He didn't belong, and he was leaving. He turned to the door, and reached for the handle that lead to the outside room full of blank faced people who didn't care, and couldn't see the difference. Wait, Tezuka said, almost anxious but he couldn't have been, was, appeared to be, and his lover was left grasping at empty endings of half-forgotten sentences and words in the rich light. Fuji's eves were very blue, but Tezuka couldn't see them. He knew that.

What do you want, he asked to the empty, listening air, faintly perfumed with coffee and expensive cologne, and asked himself the same question. I'm not sure, exactly, replied the other slowly, desperately remembering the crackling of a radio, a silver washed mirror frame, clear glass and a molten sky, and the warmth of another on cotton sheets. Fuji knew. He almost stayed, anyway, but he could never leave. We need to talk, his lover began, but the words hit him like the blow of a tennis ball sinking into the soft flesh just below his ribcage, driving into him, and formed, ghostly and unreal, and hovered in midair, held by an invisible force, taunting him, laughing cruelly at his distress, and he could see red hair and Tezuka's face, pale and taut, but that had to be a lie because even if Tezuka worried, he would never let it appear, could never, and his lover had finally realized the problem, if only part of the problem, and it didn't matter, truly didn't matter anymore, because as long as he was alive, he would change into a living little ghost puppet, a shell of whispers and bone and it wouldn't matter, because Tezuka wouldn't notice, and he would never tell his lover, or leave him because he was a fool and lost, irrevocably lost…

Fuji opened his eyes to white walls. There was a faint orange haze dying the room, and a vague shape bending over him, which solidified into a man with shadows creeping across the bottom of his face, a doctor, and they said it was a combination of emotional stress and insomnia that caused him to collapse, and they gave him some advice and a few prescriptions he threw away once they left, and he walked out to the front desk where his friends were currently scaring the receptionist. Inui's juice tasted better than the medicine, so it didn't really matter, and it was good for you, too.

He watched them distantly, worried and yet solaced by their loved ones, and his eyelids were suddenly heavy and clinging, but it didn't really matter because his mouth was accustomed to arranging itself into a smile and did so without his permission. He didn't want to look at Tezuka so he didn't, and pretended he had left something at Ryoma's apartment. His only response to their fussing was a short sentence, quiet and curt. I'm tired, he said at last, and I don't particularly want to look at you. He saw the wince that was quickly hidden and almost smiled but it hurt too much.

He walked home. It was raining and dim and faintly grey tinged with mist, and there were little shattered pieces of glass underneath his feet like uncut diamonds, mingling and hiding in the new spring green grass, and gravel and asphalt ahead of him, and everything looked far away but as real as the fading paint on somebody's garage. Bits of water fell on his face and hands and he felt tiredly contented and slightly empty, and acutely aware of a slightly scratchy throat, and comfortably warm and chilled. He had forgotten what it meant to be angry.

He let himself quietly in to Ryoma's apartment, the door open as if they were expecting him, but the rooms were empty and surprisingly neat. He paused, and filled a glass of water at the kitchen sink, then put it down on the table, untasted. He walked into the hall, noticing a painting on the ceiling, a well-done copy of a famous Dutch painting called the Girl With the Pearl Earring, a recent addition. He'd seen it before, but hadn't noticed the dark paint around the edges before, or the fact she looked out from the shadows, her skin and headwrap shining with a faint hint of golden luster, more real than any impossible beauty could have been, because the painter knew how to paint imperfections. He touched the brushstrokes and imagined wild brown hair, sharp eyes, clear lenses of glass and wire, and strong hands, and thought, Tezuka…he squashed the wayward thought quickly.

He felt empty, his insides hollowed out with a steel spoon, and yet sure of his actions, like he was actually controlling his own movement, instead of the stilted puppet he had felt like for so long. He was almost unhappy, but he wasn't because he wouldn't allow himself to think of it. Of him. The other….

He left. There was a man standing outside the window, grey and golden, and he couldn't quite bear it, not yet. He stayed in a hotel room for a few days, determined to be busy, somehow, but his cell phone stayed off and whatever calls he received went unanswered. He stared at the wall, instead of the droning TV, it seemed more fascinating and deliberately pathetic, but he couldn't drag his eyes away from the empty expanse of bare wall. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to know, because he couldn't bear that. He waited, instead.

One hot night, when the sheets were too clingy and the mattress too limp and yet hard and lumpy, he pulled up the shutters and admired the jewel bright lights of the city, set in a golden haze and surrounded by darkness the same way the girl in the painting had been. This was darker, though, with cut slashes of velvet shadows lining the alleyways with soft powdery blue light, softening, yet failing to conceal the tinges of night air that touched his face, cold and thrilling.

He went into the bathroom and washed his wrists and temples, the feel of cold white porcelain driving foolish fancies out of his mind. Somehow, though, he felt hotter and stickier than ever, and suffocated, as if every breath he made was grudged to him. He moved to turn the water off and involuntarily dashed a cup to the ground, the sharp edges catching glints of light among the grey shadows that lay along the tiles. He went back to sleep, not caring about the broken glass. Somehow he wasn't restless anymore.

He went back to Ryoma's apartment the next day, and stayed there for the night. They didn't talk, but he didn't want to, anyway. Ryoma went out during the day. Fuji stayed there for a week. It was mid-afternoon on a tired Sunday when Fuji heard a noise.

Someone was knocking softly on the door. Softly yet clearly, no longer authoritively, or impatient, but a simple request. Fuji opened the door and walked out, watching the man who stood leaning on the iron wrought railing. He watched the rumble of traffic, the soft glittering clouds of dust and sand from underneath the tires of sand, and the people passing by. Fuji didn't speak.

I didn't guess, Tezuka said at last. I thought you were happy; I didn't bother to ask why you were sad. No one can live in silence, because I don't know you as well as that, but as well as I can and probably ever will. I guess that's where we went wrong. I missed you, you know. So much. And then we stopped communicating even in that way, and I kept on assuming, but you didn't say anything, so I thought it was okay. I thought it wasn't anything particular, but I've never been particularly good with words. He was babbling, but he couldn't stop himself, he knew he couldn't let this continue any farther.

People _change_, Tezuka thought fiercely, and I didn't remember that, because I thought I knew him. And I don't any more. But I love him, if the combination is possible for me.

Fuji looked out into the street, a haze of gray and blue shadows and white buildings, and thought. He was as much to blame as Tezuka, more so, because he had waited, noticed, and only wanted Tezuka to notice. He didn't want to save himself, because even if he could help himself, he wasn't exactly sure he wanted to be helped. Because being saved, being emotionally undamaged, doesn't mean you're happy. Salvation doesn't equal happiness.

He reached out and deliberately took Tezuka's glasses from his face, running idle fingers over the silver wire and clear shells. He knew Tezuka was partially blind without them, that the world turned fuzzy and small and he felt off-balance and defensive when they weren't on his face, and waited. You're blind without them, he remarked dryly, almost cruelly. Tezuka looked at him with blank eyes and a tired glass bright gaze. I'm always blind, he whispered hoarsely. Yes, said Fuji suddenly, standing on his toes, his eyes squeezed shut, and Tezuka under his hands, in his arms, against his mouth, always.

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Fuji

He's mine. He'll be mine always, strong and kind, and he won't ever leave me. They all won't.

I'm afraid. It sounds strange, yet it's true, irrevocably and completely true, because there is no fear as great as this one. As great as mine. The original fear.

The Western Bible says that Adam was the first man, but he was distraught, afraid and he called out to God to give him a companion. We only know that story as the beginning of womankind, but I found something infinitely more fascinating when I read it. Adam was curious, yes, but more than that, he was lonely. He didn't want to be alone, but he didn't know what it meant to be lonely.

I think I can sympathize.

It's so easy to break someone's trust, to shatter a relationship. It's a simple matter to manipulate and lie, and break a trust with a single word, or a careless comment. That's what makes human relationships so precious, knowing that the rare gift of trust may be taken back much more quickly than it's given. I've seen that happen. My so-called friends, my family, my own brother, turned on me because of a single word, something I couldn't predict, couldn't control.

Prodigy.

I found new friends, I found odd, quirky people, strange, misfits, bound and following one goal and one action only, and connected by tennis. I had never seen such people before. I _loved_ them. And, in our own way, we loved each other. We were teammates, and such a tie was love, if you chose to call it that. I didn't want us to separate, didn't want them to drift away. I didn't want to be alone, not again. Never again.

I'm not going to be without Tezuka. I don't think my heart could accept being torn apart, I'm not going to lose the friends I've gained either. I manipulate. But I don't, not really. They love me. And the paths that we take together are the paths that they choose. They could turn me down. There could be an unexpected accident, a simple preference that draws you off the obvious path.

Yuuta called me yesterday. His marriage failed, but I could have told him that. My dear baby brother, humans are so unpredictable. They're the most wonderful beings in the world. You won't ever understand it like I do, perhaps that's why we grew so far apart.

Somehow, I think I'm the one being manipulated, but it doesn't matter. If Tezuka left me, if he ran away to a far corner of the world, I would follow him, track him down, and love him. I'm insane, perhaps. But I can't help what I feel. I wonder if Oishi and the others would be alarmed, or perhaps even appalled, but it doesn't really matter.

There are some things that can't be broken. I will not allow this to be broken. I belong to them as much as they are bound to me, and far, far more.

I really love you, Tezuka.

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**Alaive; I hope this is clearer!**

_.: I've stopped equating my problems with the world, because I'm not sure what a world is anymore:._


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